Courts of the Fey Page 10

  As they follow her, the all too mortal men have no idea that some of them may never find their way back again. The ones who do will never be the same.

  I give this twenty-first century will o′ wisp a nod of acknowledgement as she dances by. It looks like I’m not the only one out hunting tonight. Luckily, we each have our own types of prey to hunt and they rarely overlap. Not that there isn’t plenty to choose from around here in this never-ending flow of humanity.

  What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, and sometimes the visitors never have the chance to leave.

  I pick up the pace. I’m not nocturnal or anything; it’s just in this city, the best hunting is in the early hours of the night. If I want to find a new meal, I need to start seriously searching.

  I stop for a second as a flash of green at the corner of my eye grabs my attention. I smile and wave at the little leprechaun hiding outside a casino entrance. I hadn’t seen one of his kind on the Strip before. Being a bit on the literal side, they tend to stick to Rainbow Boulevard. If the humans had any idea about what was buried at the end of that street, they’d have ripped the area apart. You put that many little people at the end of the only rainbow in a town built on greed and the treasure almost hoarded itself.

  The little man glares at me, mouthing a curse that I don’t bother trying to translate. I guess he doesn’t want attention drawn to himself, probably a pickpocket waiting for some minor jackpot winner to come out of the casino. Or maybe he’s avoiding the spriggin standing guard at the door. That particular casino was run by a member of the Unseelie court, one that didn’t want to be locked away beneath the ground. If the leprechaun thought he’d put something over on that owner, he’d be lucky if he didn’t end up splattered by a red cap or worse.

  The Italian mob might be famous for its violent casino antics, but they had nothing on the Unseelie.

  Whatever. I have better things to do than waste my time in a pissing contest with the vertically challenged. I can see a group of humans gathering at the corner. Heavy metal blares from that direction.

  Maybe I found my meal.

  I weave my way through the crowd, not an easy feat as packed in as they were. Still, if the person drawing this much attention is as good as he seems from the size of the crowd, my next meal ticket is a sure thing. Of course, humans aren’t always the best judges of talent.

  My anticipation is short-lived. The canned music isn’t nearly savory enough to signal a feast for me and the so-called artist is more of a showman than a true connoisseur. To the beat of his speakers, he slaps and sprays paint on the canvas stretched on the ground at his feet. Slowly, a picture of some mundane talk show host appears out of the mess, to the thunder of the crowd’s applause. It’s an interesting gimmick, something the tourists must love. Monetarily, it’s a winning gamble, sell the painting and get some donations thrown in the hat at the same time. But I wouldn’t call it art. I know creatures that can fart better paintings.

  And my opinion is the only one that matters. Of course, that doesn’t stop me from reaching out and draining what little bit of creative energy I can from the scruffy man.

  Who am I to pass up a quick snack?

  I manage to push my way back out of the crowd without getting too disheveled. I pause to straighten all the wrinkles from my clothes and fluff my hair. Looking around, I don’t see any prospects, so I move on down the street. As I make my way, I’m seeing more and more people with giant drinks shaped like famous landmarks literally strapped around their necks. It might not be my thing, but inebriated prey was easy prey. So, I guess, the more the merrier.

  As I cross an alley, I feel a tug of magic. Someone has cast a strong glamour over the area next to the large green dumpster.

  I can’t help but peek, curiosity getting the better of me. A beautiful woman, who resembles me though with much more flash, is pressing a man against the wall. His hand is up her skirt and he’s groaning as her mouth travels down his throat. She senses my presence, tossing her hair back and smirking at me. Her eyes glitter and glow though there is no light in the alley. The human, deep in his own passions, never sees the nails on her left hand growing into claws, even as she wiggles those elongating fingers at me.

  One quick slash and he doesn’t even have time to scream. The Baobhan Sidhe follows him to the ground, drinking the blood gushing from his neck. Not a single drop escapes her hunger.

  I feel jealous at the ease of her feeding. She doesn’t have to be picky. Any human will do for this vampire. Male or female, young or old, skilled or not, it doesn’t matter as long as the person falls for her beauty and can be lured away from the pack. Of course, she can’t keep her prey around for years or even decades like I can, especially if I’m careful to space out my feedings. She has to hunt every night without end.

  Still, at times like these when my energy is low and I haven’t found a donor, I envy her. Being picky doesn’t always pay.

  I shake my head and start walking again. I don’t want to draw attention to the Baobhan Sidhe, not when she hasn’t had time to hide the body yet. It wouldn’t do any of us good if the human police were called. We Sidhe exist in the shadows and live well that way. We would all suffer if the humans believed in our existence again. It was one thing when there were fewer of us, and less humans as well. Now we are everywhere, our numbers growing despite having to live without a mound. As long as the humans continue to relegate us to children’s stories, the easier it is to be the hunters and not the hunted.

  I mean, would a group of kelpies be able to stand in front of the giant fountains that were the mainstay of the casino across the street if people believed in them? Sure, they’re disguised as a group of not so attractive, hairy men, laughing and flirting with women as they passed. A beautiful horse standing there would’ve been horribly obvious. But with little effort, they are able to separate lone tourists and drag them into the water. Several minutes later, they reappear, lean against the railing, and start flirting again. No muss, no fuss, and no one the wiser. No human could imagine the number of people who disappear in such a public place without a trace.

  That human disbelief is our greatest weapon.

  I stand across the street and watch the kelpies for a while. With the fountain going through its hourly show, no one will wonder what I’m looking at. I’m just another out-of-towner taking in the free entertainment and the glory of water dancing to the musical stylings of Frank Sinatra. With people stopping and focusing on the gushing water, the kelpies make quick work out of at least three women as I watch. With such rich pickings, they won’t have to hunt again this week, maybe even this month.

  As the music fades, the lights dim, and the water falls, I turn back to my own quest.

  Surely someone with untapped talent is around here somewhere. I mean, this city is huge and it’s considered one of the showbiz capitals of the world. I’ve even heard it called a musicians’ Mecca. Maybe I’ll have to resort to chatting up another headliner. I hope not. I hate making due with slim pickings. Once the person is already established as an artist, they aren’t as tasty or as filling. But I can survive a few months, even a year on one if I have to.

  A trickle of strings, a melodious turn of chords flows its way to me. My lips curl at the corners and I close my eyes to absorb the pleasure of the music trickling over my senses. Yes, this is what I’m looking for. I can practically taste the sweet nectar floating on the breeze. A pure, artistic soul beckons.

  The man I find sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, an open guitar case in front of him, isn’t classically handsome. He isn’t at all the type of guy that would attract the attention of someone who looks like me. He’s young and a little rough around the edges. His brown hair is shaggy, falling into his face and covering his eyes. But he’s got good bone structure and is in good shape. Still it isn’t his looks that lured me to him. Like an uncut diamond, his persona can be polished to a gleaming splendor at a later date.

  It’s his music that compels me, his art that
draws me near. I stand to the side, swaying along with the rhythm of his song. I ignore the other humans that hurry past him without so much as a pause or a tossed coin, never bothering to even glance his way. What did they know about art? It takes someone of my kind to shove greatness in their faces before humans ever notice it. The strongest of the Leanan Sidhe run the music industry, control the art world, and dominate acting, all from behind the scenes. There, we show mankind their own marvels while feeding on the souls that produce the wonder.

  I open my eyes and smile at the man, reaching into my pocket for the thick wad of bills I’d taken from my last artist after he died. It wasn’t like he’d need it now anyway and considering the amount of coke he was snorting at the end, no one would miss it.

  I toss the bundle into this man’s case, grinning at the heavy thud it makes against the thinly padded leather.

  His eyes widen at the amount, a jarring sound ringing from his instrument as his fingers miss a few key strings. But I don’t mind the discordant noise. I have his full attention now.

  He pauses, a question gleaming in his eyes. He clears his throat and pats his guitar. “Is there something you want to hear? If I know it, I’ll play it.” He flashes me a shy grin. “If I don’t, I’ll play it anyway.”

  And let the games begin. I grin back, letting him see I appreciate his attempt at humor. “I’d like to hear something you wrote, if you don’t mind.”

  Sucking in a deep breath, he nods, fumbling for a moment as his fingers glide over the frets. I know the sound of my voice shakes him. That is the point. Sweet and melodious, my voice was created to both tempt and inspire the true lyricist. I am the muse that will lead a human to fame and glory while eating his soul a drop at a time. I am Leanan Sidhe.

  As music is this man’s calling, its ultimate corruption is mine.

  A presence in the shadows draws my attention from my next donor. A trow lingers in the shadows, watching with its own hunger gleaming in his squinty orbs. My musician must have great untapped ability if he is enchanting enough to draw this ugly creature out of its trowie and deep into the human-packed city. Trows, solitary and shy creatures similar to trolls, don’t do crowds. Only the most skilled musician can lure them from their underground homes.

  I feel a stab of pride at the creature’s presence, wanting to pat my new pet on his head to show my approval of his musical strength. At the same time, I can’t allow this other creature to challenge me for my prey. Having my human trapped underground playing wedding music for the next few decades would be an incredible waste of talent.

  Not to mention, just listening to the talented musician play was making me hungry.

  I glare at the ugly, hunched little creature. I waste a bit of my remaining magical power in a short pulse, showing the trow that I meant business. I am Sidhe and the trow was a lesser being, almost lower in importance than the humans. If he thinks he can take my musician without a fight, I am more than ready to prove him wrong. The trow might be physically stronger than me, but my magic could rip him to shreds before he could make his first move.

  He simply needs to be reminded of that fact.

  The creature growls as he feels the weight of my magic but slinks away, head bowed between its dis-proportioned shoulders. In moments, the shadows swallow him and not even his stench remains.

  The musician doesn’t notice the exchange, concentrating on performing a delicate set of chords that flows into a lovely melody. It shocks me to see that no one else notices the beauty laid out before them. How can humans be so blind to their own greatness, their own splendor? How could they survive if it wasn’t for my kind guiding them from behind the scenes?

  “That’s amazing.” My voice drips with compelling magic as I move a step closer. It’s nearly time to pounce. A little more attention and he will be mine. “What do you call it?”

  The man swallows and licks his lips. He doesn’t meet my gaze as he shrugs. “I don’t know. It just came to me.”

  I smile. Of course it did. He is in the presence of a muse. I’ve helped lesser talents than he to achieve masterpieces that will be remembered for eons. “Does it have lyrics to go with it?”

  He closes his eyes and shakes his head. His shoulders stoop a bit as he speaks. “No. I’m not good with words.”

  I take the opportunity to kneel down beside him, reaching out to touch his guitar. I run my fingers over the battered, but obviously well-loved, wood. I allow my expression to show only wonder and appreciation, not the desperate hunger that lurks just beneath my skin. “I doubt that. With time and the proper muse, I bet you could write a song that would grip a person’s heart and squeeze every drop of emotion from them. You have the potential to reach the hearts and minds of millions.”

  He laughed, his nervous fingers plucking strings at random. “No way. I don’t have that kind of talent. If you think I do, you obviously don’t know me.”

  “I know enough.” I sat down completely, leaning close enough for him to feel the heat from my body but not close enough to touch. I watch people walking by, ignoring what will one day inspire them. I bump him with my shoulder, finally getting him to look at me. “What’s your name?”

  “Kyle,” he whispers. He ducks his head, eyeing the ground again, but he doesn’t move away.

  My shoulder still touching his, I take a moment to draw in a bit of his energy, enough to get a taste of his soul so I can find him whenever I want. I will let him believe he still has his freedom, that he comes to me by his own choice, but he is mine now. Yes, this is the one I was looking for. I reach into my pocket to pull out one of my cards, already heavily charmed to bring me whatever I desire. I hold it out to him, waiting for him to accept my offer and activate the magic. “Well, Kyle, have you ever wanted to be famous?”

  He takes the paper, glancing down at it as the charm binds him to me. He grimaces, but not from the magic. I can feel the hope and anticipation vibrating in him, at war with his mortal sense of despair. He’s so afraid to believe. “This is Vegas, lady. Everyone wants either fame or fortune.”

  This is a town that gives rise to dreams as easily as it crushes them beneath its neon-clad feet. “Well, I can give you both fame and fortune if you trust me.” I tap at the card, adding a bit more compulsion to the magic. “Take your time. Look me up. You’ll find I’m the real deal. I’ve worked with many artists like you. I know when I find someone who will be great. I also know how to help them meet their ultimate potential.”

  I push even more magic at him, feeding that part of him that he draws his inspiration from. So much promise there, waiting to be tapped. I feel giddy with anticipation and struggle to contain it. All in good time. “With my help, you can be great.” I climb to my feet, dusting off my slacks.

  His hand trembles a little as he clutches my card. He’s so cute sitting there trying to act as though being discovered happened to him every day. He’s struggling to act cool. He doesn’t want me to know for certain that he’ll be calling me, probably before the next sun sets.

  But he will. They always do. And I give each and every one of them exactly what I say I will. I show the world the beauty they create. I help the mortals discover what they are capable of. I make them famous. Their names will be remembered long after they are gone, their music still savored even after their deaths. I assist my artists in gifting the world with beauty, a beauty that helps all of mankind to forget for a moment how fleeting their lives truly are.

  And I feed from it. I may pay for my food, in my own way, but don’t make any mistakes. Don’t imagine that I’m some kind of guardian angel or selfless saint. I am one of the monsters, one of those creatures that humans still fear even as they claim they don’t believe such evil exists.

  The Sidhe are not kind, not generous and giving. We are glorious. We are horrid. We are magnanimous. We are petty. We are astonishing. We are resentful. We are strong. We are envious. And in one way or another, those of us who still live in the mortal world have to eat to survive.


  And I eat beauty.

  PENNYROYAL

  Kerrie Hughes

  I was afraid and angry as I lay face down in the grass with blood filling my mouth. Two jerks had jumped me from behind and I bit my own tongue when I hit the ground. One of them was searching my backpack while the other held me down by sitting on my back. He had one hand on my head to keep me from seeing him. I decided not to move.

  “What’s she got?” the one on my back said.

  “Just clothes, a wooden flute thing, and girl stuff.”

  “No money?”

  “Check her pockets.”

  Rough hands went through my jean pockets and hoodie.

  “I’m not finding anything.” He leaned forward. “Where’s your money, little girl?”

  I mumbled but ended up coughing blood instead.

  “Let her talk, dude.”

  He took his hand off my head and I felt something ram into him and knock him off my back. He let out a whumpf of air and started to call for help.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Grrrrrrrr!

  I scrambled up and saw a large black dog sitting on one guy; the other was backing away slowly. The dog leapt off the first guy and ran at the second, chasing him across the grass. First Guy got to his feet and ran in the opposite direction. I looked around but didn’t see the dog’s owner. Even though I was still a little dizzy, I thought I should hurry up and get to safety. I rolled up my sleeping bag, put my pack on, and headed toward street-lights.

  London was proving to be more dangerous than I had planned. I had only been away from the Seelie lands for three days, and I was already rethinking my plan to run away to the city in order to avoid the upcoming hostage ceremony.